


The strong gets more (while the weak ones fade)

by thelastfig



Series: The shadows I live with are numberless [2]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Female!Nix, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 17:11:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10283996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelastfig/pseuds/thelastfig
Summary: Companion piece to These Foolish Things (remind me of you)Dick writes letters he never sends and dreams about life after the war





	

**Author's Note:**

> Lux- you are not old. Accept this in lieu of Pirate payment for the time being

For every letter Dick writes there are two or three discarded drafts.

 

_Dear Mr and Mrs. Muck,_

 

_I regret to inform you there wasn't enough of your son left to identify. We found his rosary among what human remains we could find, but there might be some of Private Penkala mixed in too._

 

These letters eventually become another form letter about dying honorably for one's country, and how in the fight against evil there are always sacrifices needing to be made. There's an anecdote or two thrown in to make it less sterile, but it doesn't hurt any less when those sacrifices are men you've come to know and love like family.

 

_Col. Sink._

 

_The men are shrinking in front of me, both from lack of food and horrible morale. If the nice folk back in Washington could stop getting my men killed, I'd appreciate that._

 

Translates to

 

_Understood. Will hold the line._

 

After a while the letters to families and HQ become mechanical; the sarcastic earlier drafts are banished to his mind to save their dwindling supply of paper. The evidence of his small acts of insolence are originally kept hidden away, but here in the Bois Jacques they become firewood kindling, a weak prayer of apologies sent up to those he couldn't save.  

 

The letters to London are the only ones he doesn't burn, the only ones he saves. The original drafts are tucked between the pages of his private journal, buried in his trunk beneath socks where no one will look. The letters start out as a few words, nothing more than loose ideas tied together with foolish hopes like 'maybe' and 'someday'. After a while, they become fully fleshed out lives of their own, lives parallel to the one Dick is currently stuck in.  

 

_Dearest Louisa,_

 

_When I see you in my mind's eye, I see you standing at a kitchen sink, rinsing off plates or cleaning something for dinner. There are curtains you took pride in sewing yourself, a little crooked but fully functional, hanging in the window in front of you, and the lace on them throws a pattern across your tanned skin in the light of the dying sun. Your hair is up but a few pieces escape and curl at the nape of your neck where my lips ache to be, your apron is tied in a lopsided bow but the straps accentuate the curves of your body where my hands wish to wander. I see you from the doorway I'm leaning against, and you don't notice me standing there watching you. I'm tired from a long day out in the fields and making sure the farm is running like it should be, but watching you hum off-key with the radio as you sway slightly, going about whatever it is you're doing, gives me a peace and calm as good as sleep._

 

Or

 

_Hey Lou,_

 

_I know Chicago will be everything you told me and more. I'll forget what quiet is and take you dancing all night and we wouldn't stop even as the sun was coming up. Your hair would be perfectly coiffed as you like it until the dancing started, but watching it unravel would just make you more beautiful. The other men would be looking at you- I wouldn't say anything as you flirt and tease them, but only because I know deep down your eyes are for me only. You would have the finest things money could buy, and I would make sure you would never want for anything._

 

Except Louisa Nixon could never be a farmer's wife just as Dick would never be a city boy.

 

_Dear Miss. Nixon,_

 

_I received your last letter just as we crossed into Belgium. I have been unable to write until now as we had been cut off from the main line, so I am unsure if any of my letter sent previous to that successfully made it to London. Being on the front line means nothing is certain._

 

_I am sorry to hear you have been ill. I hope you recovered by the time I received your letter and if not, I hope you are on your way to a full recovery. I pray you are better soon._

 

_I think of you often, and I hope I do not offend when I say I hope you think of me as well. My men and I are surrounded by snow and sleep outdoors in whatever foxholes we manage to dig in the frozen ground. My memories of you, of our regrettably short time together, keep me warm through the night._

 

_I dream of the end of this war and seeing you again._

 

_Faithfully yours,_

_Dick_

 

Before he folds the letter into an envelope addressed for the OSS in London, he presses his chapped lips against it and whispers a quick prayer. A flare lights up the night sky above him, and he hastily tucks the letter into one of his pockets. The shrill whistle of mortars fill the air, and the earth around his foxhole begins to tremble. Dick closes his eyes and pulls the memory of Louisa like a safety net around him; he prays the letter in his pocket won't become a burned apology.

  
  
  



End file.
